Bitch in Boots
by Aconitum-Napellus
Summary: Spock/Chapel Mirror Universe one-shot. Rated 15. When Spock comes into the sickbay suffering strange symptoms, Christine Chapel diagnoses a case of poisoning, and a new alliance is formed.


_The bitch in the boots_, they called her – no matter that all the women on the ship wore thigh high boots. There was something special about her. She wore them well.

When they weren't calling her that they called her the Ice Queen or Lady Frigid – but they only called her those when she allowed them to speak. The best place for men – for most of the crew, actually – was strapped to one of those biobeds with a rubber bit between their teeth. There was nothing kinky about that. It was just necessary, sometimes, to shut them up when they were under treatment.

And she enjoyed it, getting those hapless souls into her sickbay and strapped down on a bed and under the gaze of her instruments and scanners. They ceased to be human as soon as she was studying them. There was something pure and fascinating about medicine. She'd known that ever since she'd first dissected a small mammal in elementary school and explored the glistening pink muscles, the white surprise of bone, the tangled mess of guts and organs. There was something addictive about getting right into a body and seeing how it worked.

Once she got rid of McCoy she would have reached the pinnacle of her ambition. A whole sickbay under her control, every body on the ship under her thumb. Now, that would be delightful.

Christine pushed another fistful of discs into their proper slot, and wiped the desk down. It really would be _satisfying_ to get rid of McCoy. She was sick of tidying up after him, sick of cleaning up the residue of his chemical experiments, his food, his discarded equipment.

The doors swished open behind her and she turned, always wary, to see who it was. This time it was Spock, upright, bearded, impeccable as always. Now, he would make a fun study on the biobed. He stayed away from this place as a rule and his internal arrangements were largely a mystery, as was his logical, ruthless mind. But there had been something different about him since that mission with the Halkans. There was something in his eyes that hadn't been there before, and he'd been more controlled, more – merciful – as strange at that seemed. Kirk was talking about getting rid of him. She, for one, would far rather get rid of Kirk. He was a womanising brute. At least Spock kept his hands to himself.

'Nurse,' Spock said crisply, looking about the sickbay with his penetrating gaze. 'Is the doctor present?'

Christine regarded him coolly, tracing her fingers over the hilt of the dagger that she kept pushed into her boot. She had inherited that dagger from her sister. It was far more intricate – and far more deadly – than the standard issue weapons, as her sister had found out to her cost.

'Doctor McCoy is off duty,' she replied flatly.

Spock stood still for a moment, seeming perturbed. She let her eyes travel from his face, down his smart tunic, to the well-defined hips and thighs in the tight black trousers. Really, it was a pity he kept his hands to himself.

'Shall I call him?' she asked, injecting a rather more sultry tone into her voice.

'No matter,' Spock said.

'Then, can I help you?' she offered. She didn't very often offer help, but it would be a pleasure to see a little more of the Vulcan.

He hesitated a moment, then took a step further into the sickbay.

'You have no love for Captain Kirk,' he said frankly, his voice low.

'None at all,' Christine admitted without shame.

'It is no secret that a – rivalry – has grown up between myself and the captain,' Spock said.

'Everyone's saying you want him dead, you mean,' Christine replied.

Spock acted suddenly, grasping at her upper arm with iron fingers, pushing her back closer to the wall.

'Remember your rank, Lieutenant,' he reminded her in a low, deadly voice.

'Yes, sir,' Christine replied, unusually meek. There was a certain logic – she almost laughed at the word – in playing it safe with Spock.

Perhaps she should have been rattled at his sudden show of strength and command, but his action sent electric shocks of pleasure through her stomach and pelvis. She'd better not make the mistake of not taking him seriously, however. Spock had full privileges with the agoniser booth, even now.

'I have been experiencing some – unusual pains, accompanied by certain mental fluctuations,' Spock said, his voice lower still.

'Mood swings, sir?' Christine asked, intrigued. What could move a robot like Spock to mood swings? There were only a couple of other Vulcans on the ship, but from all her observations their cold, calculating, emotionless way of being was intrinsic to their species.

'You might describe them as that,' Spock nodded tartly.

Christine smiled. Clearly he was uncomfortable with the idea. For someone who suppressed his emotions, she could still read him like a book.

'I have been concerned that – someone – may have introduced an inimical substance to my diet,' Spock continued in a low voice.

Christine's eyes widened. Obviously Spock thought that the captain was trying to poison him. It didn't seem like Kirk's style. He was more of a brutal, straightforward type. But on the other hand, there were plenty of the captain's enemies who simply disappeared, with no explanation given. Spock was too high up the chain of command to disappear without comment, and it was highly unusual for someone to do away with an inferior officer. Perhaps the rational – she almost laughed at that thought in connection with Kirk – solution would be to do away with the first officer in a less remarkable or traceable way.

'Come into the examination room,' she told the Vulcan. 'I'll run a full scan.'

Spock nodded his head once, and then followed her silently into the small room. She engaged the privacy lock and flicked on the biobed scanners.

'If you'll strip down to underwear,' she told him, trying to appear supremely indifferent. There was no real need for him to remove his clothing, but it would certainly make the examination more fun for her.

She didn't turn away as he shrugged off the sleek tunic, removed his boots, and took off his trousers. He folded the clothes neatly and left them on a chair. In the fitted black undershirt and black regulation underpants, he looked even more appealing. Of course Spock would wear regulation underwear, she thought, hiding a smile. It wouldn't occur to him to rebel. But regulation suited him well.

'On the table,' she said, but he was already getting up onto the black examination bed and resting his slim arms beside him with what looked like a forced indifference.

Christine glanced up at the readings, which were certainly off. She cast her mind back to that time a few months ago when Spock had presented with fluctuating body chemistry on the way to the Altair conference. That time he had shunned McCoy's advice and gone mad, to all appearances, stealing a shuttle from the ship and hightailing it to Vulcan without a word of explanation. She'd expected his execution for that little escapade. Rumour had it the Vulcan affair had ended in the death, and possible rape, of a woman, and Spock had been extra-Vulcan when he had returned – but somehow, for some reason, the highest echelons of Vulcan power had insisted that the incident go by without remark or punishment.

She pulled the tapes on that preliminary examination, nevertheless, but the fluctuations Spock was showing were notably different from that time. It had seemed to be sex hormones running crazy that time – at least, that was what the computer had shown before Spock had pounded his fist into it and stormed out of the room. This time it was different. There were some compounds that were apparently key to brain chemistry, control of emotion being the most minor of their functions. The most interesting one was xenophalin, which regulated Spock's heart function. If the imbalance continued, it was likely the heart muscle would atrophy, and eventually give up.

'Somebody's trying to poison you,' she said without preamble.

Spock's hand shot out and he grabbed her by the wrist, clenching so hard that she winced. His biceps were beautifully defined in the short-sleeved t-shirt. This close, she could smell a faint scent of him – a clean scent, but undeniably an animal one.

'You will not speak of this outside this room,' he said.

'Naturally,' she said dryly, uncurling his fingers from her wrist and flicking his hand away with disdain.

'You are sure it is poison?' he asked, sitting up and twisting his head to look at the biobed readouts.

'I'm sure,' she nodded. 'I could do with running some blood tests to confirm, but I'm sure enough. It's not like the – little problem – you had three months ago.'

Spock's eyes narrowed at her barb. She watched him coolly, assessing his musculature beneath his form-fitting black t-shirt and the contours of his underpants. Spock must hate situations like this. He must hate them more than anything else. It made her smile to think of him writhing away inside that super-logical skull of his.

'Can you treat the imbalance?' he asked, ignoring her dig.

'I can,' she nodded. 'But for the best results you'd need an infusion. And you need to cut out the poison at source.'

Spock raised an eyebrow, looking sideways at the door as if he thought the culprit might be standing just outside.

'I can do that,' he said.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and dropped lightly to the floor. _Like a cat_, Christine thought.

'You will treat me in my quarters,' he told her imperiously. 'I require privacy.'

'All right,' she said, nodding her head slightly. 'I'll be around at seven. Does that suit you, sir?'

He looked her up and down, and for a shivering moment she felt as if he was regarding her with the same interest that she had been bestowing on him. Then he nodded sharply.

'Seven. Do not be late.'

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Christine prepared the necessary drugs with all due caution. McCoy, typically, was still out of the sickbay, probably still lounging in his quarters, or giving one of the crewwomen a very private examination. But it was good to be careful in these times, so she arrived at Spock's quarters with the equipment in an ordinary shoulder bag and slipped in unnoticed by anyone of importance. The Vulcan was sitting at his desk, of course in full uniform, despite being off duty, with his fingers steepled in an attitude of meditation.

'Commander,' she greeted him, and he nodded. 'It would be better if you lay on your bed for the treatment,' she added.

'I don't see the necessity for that,' he replied, opening his tunic and shedding it without further comment. He offered her his bare arm, and raised an eyebrow in invitation.

'Well then,' she murmured, taking the drugs and equipment out of the bag and putting them on his desk.

She hooked him up to the infuser without preamble. It was a slim device that fitted around the upper arm and carried the drug inside, so Spock was correct – there was no pressing physical need for him to lie down – only the recommendations of the manufacturers, and her personal preference.

She adjusted the settings in silence so as to start the flow of the drug. It was quite refreshing to interact with a patient who didn't demand small talk or continual explanations of what was going on. It was quite refreshing to be in a room with a man who didn't nauseate her – who, in fact, attracted her. And it could be useful to cultivate a relationship with the Vulcan, she mused. He was only one step away from the captaincy, and being the Captain's woman would be a sure way to get control of the medical facility over the head of that bumbling McCoy.

'How long will this take?' Spock asked without inflection, not looking up.

She looked down on his crown of smooth, glossy hair, and the hint of beard she could just see edging his cheek. Her own hair was almost that colour naturally. She bleached it for her own personal reasons of vanity. The shade was much more becoming on a man.

'About an hour,' she told him. 'But a slow infusion is the best way to treat the damage. You can carry on with your work, or walk around if you like. They recommend a recumbent position, but it's not entirely necessary. I'll need to stay to observe you, though, in case of an adverse reaction.'

Spock nodded concisely, then looked over toward the basic replicator and cooking station in the corner of the room. He got to his feet and filled the kettle with fresh water.

'You will take tea?' he asked.

Christine nodded, surprised by the offer into accepting without thought. Spock was the last person she would have expected to follow the social niceties. But then, it was rumoured he had a human mother. Perhaps she had brought him up according to strict social disciplines.

She watched him as he stood in the corner and prepared the drink with all the ritual of an Earth-eastern tea ceremony. When he offered it to her she found it was a strange taste – a herbal concoction that was milkless, and spiced with something she couldn't place. But it was pleasant, and she sipped without comment, watching the Vulcan as he sat back down in his desk chair. He was watching her too. His gaze was intense, his eyes seeming almost black with the depths of his concentration.

'Is there something you wanted to ask me, Commander?' she asked finally, unable to take his gaze in silence any longer. There was something about it that made her want to blush, as if there were heat in his gaze.

He shook his head and turned his attention back to his drink. Christine brought out her scanner and passed it in front of him, studying the readings. The serum was entering his bloodstream at the correct rate, and she could see a marked improvement in his heart function.

'The treatment's working well,' she commented, and he nodded.

They sat in silence for some time, until Christine looked up again, meeting his dark gaze. She asked with deliberate casualness, 'You won't allow the captain to get away with this?'

Spock's mouth tightened, but he declined to answer. Christine didn't push it. Spock was dangerous when pushed – she'd seen enough evidence of that in her sick bay in the past.

'You're a woman of some ambition, I should say,' he said after a moment. 'And – some talent.'

'I do what I can,' she replied, a slight smile touching her lips.

'And – of some sexual prowess, I imagine,' he added.

Christine felt heat rush to her cheeks in a way she was quite unused to.

'I don't care for the captain's woman,' he continued, looking down at his hands. He held a stylus in his long fingers, but he was fiddling with it in a most human way. 'Lieutenant Moreau is quite attractive, as convention goes, but – I dislike used goods.'

'Would you kill her?' Christine asked, leaning forward a little.

She didn't have many close friends on this ship, but she had never disliked Marlena. She and Nyota Uhura were two of the few women she consorted with – both ambitious women, but in very different ways. If she became Spock's woman, of course, she would have to keep an eye on Uhura. It was no secret that Uhura coveted direct command rather than the position of captain's consort.

But her thoughts were running away with her. She looked up at Spock and he shook his head.

'Transfer would be quite adequate. I dislike unnecessary killing,' he confessed, and her eyes widened a little. That was a surprising weakness for the second in command of a ship like this to admit to. 'You understand,' he continued, 'that I am permitting a certain level of confidence with you, and I don't expect what I have said to leave this room.'

'Of course,' she smiled.

'You understand that I could be a formidable enemy to you. Or,' he said, reaching out a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, 'a very useful ally.'

That unaccustomed heat flooded her face again. There was something magnetising about Spock. She wasn't sure why she had never noticed it before – at least, not with such force. Perhaps it was because – could it actually be true? – the infamously reserved Vulcan was coming on to her.

'Together,' he continued, moving a little closer, lowering his voice so that she had to lean in to hear him, 'we would control the ship – I commanding the actions of the crewmembers, you in control of their mental and physical health.'

The heat that was in Christine's face seemed to surge through her entire body.

'I would enjoy that very much,' she said.

She took the risk of lifting her hand and touching it to the tip of one tapering ear. Spock closed his eyes, and a small breath passed through his lips. After a moment of what seemed to be internal personal pleasure at her touch, he opened his eyes. His dark gaze locked on to her blue one.

'Together,' he said softly, 'we will turn this Empire around.'


End file.
